


Our World is Hungry

by goldinthesink



Category: Original Work
Genre: Belly Kink, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Dystopia, Emetophilia, Explicit Language, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, M/M, Original Character(s), Porn With Plot, Science Fiction, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 19:10:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17392040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldinthesink/pseuds/goldinthesink
Summary: It's the end of the world, and a calamity known as Alpha eats away at the dregs of humanity thats left. Jazz sponsors one of these Alpha. Duncan and him just try and survive while restoring reparations and trust back into their hometown Harbor. Somehow they become the face of Po-pon Insurance’s, friendly Alpha exterminator. The job is only volatile, and quickly find themselves needing to stick closer, and closer together. Or be dissected apart by the very community they try to mend back from destruction.yea no this is just. kink with a very heavy scifi plot. so you kno, the fun stuff.Also this is unapologetically un-beta’dlike. srsly it's bad in there. maybe someday ill clean it up but right now i'm keeping it ugly





	Our World is Hungry

Our world is Hungry  
Chapter1 When no calories are left

Just, someone with a kink looking for something read, then realizing it hasn’t been created.

 

Against the Hot Line (campstop#5) 6:54

Now everything is so gross and decayed as they are, we still walk.

It’s these words Jazz holds in the forward of his mind. Like a light that ghosts inside his skull he keeps pointed into the back of his eyes, burning his retinas. The mental sting to keep moving force his steps onward. Even as he purposely blinds himself to the burnt world around them, he can’t deny the familiarity being comforting. These are streets he remembers. This was his home. He walked them a many time, back and forth in the same mundane as everyone else. He can still see some of the businesses from the faded paint against the ruins of concrete. He’d shuffled on just as blindly back then as he does now. Trying to go into a far away place only the back curtain of his sight can see. Even then, Duncan followed him. When the bastard wasn’t off chewing on the world with Alpha… Another reoccurring trauma that likes to scratch along the same cell wall he tends to keep along with all his other woes. They sit and fester amongst each other in there, Jazz can hear them whisper in his fucking dreams.

Through wastes of crumbled tomb cities. Through long stretches of hollow silent breathing. Just as sure as this acrid air runs through filters of the masks over Jazz’s own face. They still walk, still together. Dark eyes practically burn from behind the cheap protective visor. It makes Jazz squint. High morning sun cuts through the thin atmosphere like a warm knife through butter. He feels the rays burn down through the bitter chill to bake the top of his hood. Tired as he is, the faded shape in the distance doesn’t go missed. It sits there bent. End of the ruins of an alley, a simple metal sign informing “campstop5”. They walk around the sign like two ghosts who wonder aimlessly to where they know people sleep. Duncan marches ahead, beyond the sign as Jazz stops and reaches a hand out to steady against the post and watch. Taller than Jazz by maybe a little more than an inch, and a little angled now from the famine from his younger years in army. Duncan’s broad shoulders still manage to eclipse the sun to Jazz. Dark eyes root into the other man’s back when Duncan keeps toughing on. Jazz knows his partner is eager to get through the hot line and into the 5th stopcamp already, but they can’t be caught with their asses out now. Not when so close to Foundation. A bed, a bath, a meal, but it’s not just that. Close as they always are, especially within the past 5 years. LABAS appointments mining the Alpha parasite are precious hours of distance both men are always anxious for. Jazz can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing yet, but Duncan and he have literally been together like Siamese twins the past 6 months. Jazz’s shoulders are seriously starting to cramp because of how close Duncan stands. He’d also really like to take a piss without Duncan being in the same room anymore. He loves his partner. Hell, Jazz literally lost the world and chose Duncan over fucking humanity. So, he loves Duncan, but Yerba Buena is no Glouctown. Just a 20-mile distance, with a 7-mile desert, waste course, between was the difference of Duncan able to run local errands relatively comfortably for Jazz under previous employer, to Jazz needing to literally hold Duncan’s hand through the trenches. Regularly there were nights, them shoulder humping their way home through certain parts of the Yerba Buena civilization. Whenever at a particularly wide block of the trench Jazz would subtly reach his fingers with Duncan’s, or else the other could be snatched right from Jazz’s side. It’s already happened twice. First time not a full two hours into their hopeful, shining new life. Off the one-way ticket train cross the waste. Through up-layer streets, to slide into the busy trenches of Yerba Buena. Duncan beside Jazz, looking over his companions ‘shoulder to the map Jazz holds over his face. Both must have been looking like a pair of asses, because one second Duncan is there, the next he’s getting silently jumped half a block back by rebar, fucking, bandits. Broad ass daylight too. Not only are the streets bad. They realized relatively quickly their workplace also held some rather strong bias towards Duncan and his kind. Funny as they are supposedly proAlpha. The whole point of LABAS organizations is to work with Alpha in settling reparations back to humans. It became so toxic, and dangerous for Duncan, Jazz needed to damn near leash him if they expected to make it 1 month through their contract.

This little, private, LABAS research contract of the last 6 months is just another blackhead of today trying to suck on what’s left of government subsidies in restoring humanity. Jazz thought he was giving their previous employers the finger by taking up this random, spam, opportunity. It’s west of the waste, means totally new faces. A fresh pulse, hopefully as main causes of death today is infection, famine, and gossip. Not the best of pay but still government backed so that meant they’d eat, or at least were supposed to. It was just some nonprofit clinic under the Yerba Beuna Conservancy Board’s fat thumbs up. Like so many other private organizations that catch wind of Jazz’s guardianship over Duncan they spam the shit out of his email. So, it should have been perfect.

Jazz knows his military background as a foot soldier before Alpha is nothing that can compare to the league of recommended titles for the job that list the bottom of these postings. Like, neuroscientist, or biochemical engineer, hell he’s not even a phlebotomist. Jazz owns something of more value than even a PhD that can save the world. He has the “cure”. He has Duncan, a domesticated Alpha, and that makes him very valuable in this end of the world. This shoots him to the front of every private arms dealer. Every doctor. Every politician, every mercenary needing some muscle, all search crew needing better eyes, whatever loony waiting for the return of their messiah, still. All the offers sitting in his spam from small operations, to large. Suspicious to super sketchy to just downright obvious traps. Jazz chose the little clinic all the way in Yerba Beuna. As hard as he tries kicking himself for it, 6 months ago the change had sounded good. He’d been optimistic, even excited for Duncan. 5 months ago, shared bunker living, was more than worth the fight to stay as it meant avoiding lowersouth of the Harbor freetrash and living among the diseased and mental. Also severing their previous employer, Jazz lost the company studio so they were actually homeless…

If Jazz were living on his own he’d have been pretty well off for a single male surviving the end of the world. Luxurious even, as much luxury a world killed can even give. Last layer of fucked up about all of this, they were pretty financially stable and lived within their means before moving jobs. Had the ideal set up, an occupation of some kind today during the apocalypse. Something to keep busy, keep eating, and to keep from living out in the ruins like a poor sod. It’s not the no man’s land out there of Horizon, but scanty towns are rough. He’s doing the exact same thing people did before Alpha. Something that stretches out that need for dying without actually giving in you know? Surviving, but not completely like an animal or something. He’s human so he has to torture himself even after the end of the world. In Jazz’s special case, just because he wants to show just how much more he hates himself over everyone else, he needs to be proAlpha in today’s current ruin. Maybe it was just too good to be true in westside…

  
West of Glouctown, OxxArea, Foundation, Richcrust, and Church, there’s Yerba Buena. All this and What used to be so much more, now tightly huddled under the umbrella of Harbor. In fact, his new job was only about 18,000 km2 from Glouctown. That’s like, what? 3 miles and one campstop, with a 4 mile walk through an actual microwave? It wasn’t always so corrosive and looked like a pack of batteries imploded everywhere. Was once a beautiful bay community and fruitful tourist hotspot. Their cluster of civilizations make up the ruins of their long gone beautiful bayside life. Harbor is broken into points of once major metropolitan areas that follow the once, public transportation line. So, it’s straight forward, and really what probably helps keep the thin sense of normalcy lost 12 years ago. It’s kind of eerie, since after the outbreak of the Alpha calamity everything beyond Harbor boarders is just, death. Silence. The Horizon. It’s because they clung so tightly to the spine of their hometown why they are still here. As desolate as things get, there will always be a Harbor in the Horizon. 12 years later, and Jazz can realize to being one of the very, very, fortunate today.

With world being, dark, bleak, poisonous, cold, and over now, there are still people out there who try to fix it. Jazz likes to think of himself as one of these people. Even at the worst of times, he’d still like to be one of the guys in a position to do something. That’s why he joined the military, so, so long ago now. That’s how he got caught in the appeal of working for LABAS. Laboratory, Anatomy, BioAugmentation, Studies. Government owned, military driven, and promised so many shiny things for human advancement. These LABAS don’t like to admit they are the reason for Alpha. They took Duncan like so many other soldiers, rapped his body of its resources, conceived Alpha inside him, and the rest is literally history.  
Now, they disown their calamity, and any “advancement” that may have benefited humanity, because it doesn’t matter anymore. The image LABAS today want to portray? A little welcoming walk in, no more conspicuous than say a dialysis clinic.. Still friendly, quiet front desk, a real person, zero patients around. Most people don’t walk into them because they don’t cater to people, only Alpha. So nothing to see, only here to help Alphas, help humans. A disease they created, in that back room, behind the desk. That Alpha virus ate man. It’s now being used as a tool to aid in the stop of its own spread. This is why mankind is so fucking resilient. Only they can fuck up SO bad, to where they have absolutely nothing. Lost EVERYTHING, will come with a solution of jumping from the pot into the fire, and it probably will be crazy enough to fucking work too. If anything, it’s the best idea with what’s dealt, but only a desperate man would somehow fathom together such a plan. So, it fits, and the hole of corruption is apparently endless too, there is no bottom. The fraud that still happens both destroys and saves them. Humanity has chosen this fate of toting the fucking line, just because he can, because man knows better. Man is also despicable, just, awful and fucking loves making his fellow man suck his cheesy, salty, balls. So now they all suffer, like this. Live, like this. Survive and die in this.

Something rough is scraped beneath Duncan’s foot while he steps ahead, and it draws Jazz from the smoke of his mind. Still stuck beside the sign, within the shadows of the alley ruins. Eye’s follow after some long tapestry that catches on Duncan’s foot, and he mindlessly drags it along with him into the campstop5 trenches. Jazz’s gloved palm tightens into the dried metal sign while his crow like profile squints into the sun breaking his hall of shade. Discarded and dust worn, half draped into the trench by Duncan’s hanging feet like toilet paper lays a Goman banner. This gets a frown to pull at Jazz’s features. “Duncan. Don’t want to draw any unwanted attention. We’re too close to Central to be ass out.” They were trying to get through the 5th campstop into Foundation, which is like Harbor’s capital city. A hub where their government left holds most sway. It’s where the Patrol Pack Police barricade. Last campstop and they were finally back in familiar territory…

Whatever politics and bureaucracy matter anymore happen in Foundation. All the corporate business with any relic wealth from before Alpha still supplies the people what dregs of habituated capitalism they can in this malnourished time. Dealing with the Foundation Social House is always a fucking pain, and when Jazz is due his alms, he wants his alms dammit. One can still eat thanks to his options in the private market today. Private companies, like Po-pon Insurance litter throughout Harbor but absolutely clog the streets of Foundation. Not all these vendors will accept government foodbankcards, and before Po-pon Insurance, this would make a working man, jilted by the system figuring his next meal a real shit storm. There’s, “currency” out there, but it’s not entirely standardized. Left over currency from before Alpha has no value, it’s just paper. Which in this atmosphere nothing really grows, so, if lucky to stumble on some paper its only really used to wipe your ass anymore. Everything is done electronically over a phone now. Now if one finds themselves totally S.O.L there is always haggling over at OxxArea, off the 8th campstop. It would probably be considered, like a down town, and probably the closest thing to an actual village or market today. OxxArea is run by survivors, though there are still many private companies and their mascots out that way too. Still none have the same clout as Po-pon Insurance. A fucking Goman vendor would actually be nice to see right about now.

Goman owned by Po-Pon Insurance is probably the only thing competing against the strings keeping the government together in the way of wealth, power, marketing, and growth. Up until about 2 years ago things in Harbor were just, hard. Jazz had been out there with Duncan holding down some ruins in the lowsouth, freetrash just like everyone else. So many people just starved to death. There was no food and the government couldn’t get their shit together to help anyone who didn’t have anything. Which was mostly everybody but a VERY select few. As much as Po-pon Insurance has started owning more, and more of Harbor, it’s spread has just become another form of Alpha to Jazz. Po-pon isn’t special from any other insurance company or business chain, it just scored big time with Goman’s friendly face. The cartoon is EVERYWHERE. He’s there on every corner to provide “Insurance” and “help”. People forget it’s a business mascot and fall into the convenience of having Goman around. He provides cheaper government alternatives to everything. Vaccines that actually help, most of the time, free flu shots. Food and vendor chains. He’s also dirt cheap. Information, health, food, and always something free to give. He pumps news, message boards, servers, provides the most reliable web browsers and products. You need a job, you go through Po-pon networks and get on an insurance plan.

Straight access to job listings, search party rabbit holes, chat rooms made for scouting groups, turf war recruiting, mercenary work, survival podcasts for every loony that made it, and another that falls into the depths of it. Community service hours, server mining, things for sale, looking for room or board, or just a review on a ruin as a possible place to squat, it’s on the GoPoGrid, or the GPG. Anything that was around before if someone thought of it there’s a Po-pon version of it now. Get through the hellish process of acquiring a cellphone like a good 60% of the population has, somehow. You only barely matter with a phone so without one you’re nobody. Whole new world of living is available through a cell phone, because fuck paper. Po-pon location openings. Po-pon vendor status checks. The Po-pon watch dog pulse is especially irritating. Po-pon not only provides a little of what was lost it allows for access to each other. There’s always something happening to someone, and Goman is always watching, so you’re going to read about it on the pulse. It’s damn impossible to keep your identity to yourself anymore. Especially if you drag around a live Alpha remnant with you, like Jazz does.

People see Goman and they think of how things used to be, like, economy, .com, safety, networking. They see Duncan and they go crazy from fear, think of things like Ebola, global warming, Triclosan, just completely shit themselves. Which Jazz understands. Goman is that stability for survivors today, he gets it. Goman mascots pass out clean needles and ointments in front of PoGoStops to whoever gives them the finger. Goman is nice when everything hurts. Goman is security, unlike the government PPPDogs, Goman is everywhere, but Goman is also silent. Just like how Alpha got around, Goman spreads much the same way. On every trench corner to coming out of every person’s mouths like a cough. There’s so much famine and disease, but there’s somehow always enough Goman product for each of the desperate left overs to crawl for and devour. Comfortably they fall back into the sways that damned the world and brought Alpha in the first place. Only this time man knows better.

Po-pon headquarters, is unfortunately also the immediate destination now. Another guilt that makes sure to kick Jazz in the amygdala. If progress is going to be made at all today. If tomorrow can look just a little better than yesterday. If Jazz can get them closer to that moment, once upon a time ago both men still fucking chase. Then it’s worth it, to pick a lesser evil, sacrifice Duncan one last time, this time hopefully get shit fixed. Least it’s what Jazz keeps telling himself, because what the hell else is he supposed to do now? Should have died 30 times over by now and one of them kind of already has. Never again. Ever after everything, Duncan follows obediently. Takes orders promptly. Lets them experiment on him, again, all because he still trusts Jazz. Despite Jazz proving over and over again how horrible he is at caring for and protecting the other. “Wait Duncan! I can’t see you down there!” Warning falls on deaf ears. Duncan is already sliding feet first into the trenches that make up the common street of today’s settlements. Tsking Jazz lets go of his impromtu, metal sign companion, to drop low and hurry across the stretch of exposed up-level. He barely stops to kick out his boot and swipe the damn Goman banner away before sliding in after Duncan. While Duncan gets the head start, he doesn’t allow his companion much room for clear landing.

Jazz’s legs end up stopping against the bigger build of Duncan’s as he lands feet first with hands braced for impact. There’s not much acknowledgement from the mask pointed for the intersection of trench ahead. Jazz stops against him in a rain, of falling dirt and an exasperated growl in the back of Duncan’s ear. He has to brace his hands between himself and the wall of back that makes up Duncan just to free his length of legs from Duncan’s unmoving ones. “A fucking real rock and a hard place my guy. Good one...” With a grunt after some dry sarcasm he’s free, brushing his gloved hands over the dirt caked onto his leather jacket and over the black V neck of his shirt. He tries and fails to read the silence behind the mask of his friend, so nudging a shoulder to the solid arm next to him, Jazz proceeds to remove his phone from a pocket and begin testing its buttons. A blue, light, chimes at his touch as he goes ahead to pull the full faced respirator free to sit on the back of his head. It’s a comfortable pause, the air down here not as harsh as the up-street levels. Most of the corrosive air is dampened around them, something about the ventilation within the winding cuts within the dirt. A few rats chase each other towards the intersection away from Jazz and Duncan. Trash sporting the face of today’s mascot, savior, Goman sit and fester as litter among the trench corners. So far into Harbor the stupid penny headed, mascot finally makes his appearance like a seagull close to shore. It means rescue is just up ahead. Whenever Jazz sees it, he’s reminded of this pancake mascot from a popular diner chain back before Alpha.

Starring along to the circling loading status of a winking Goman poses his attention for a much needed breath. 4 days of sloughing along the streak of gunk that was their rout from one city into the next has Jazz feeling exhausted, so he knows Duncan isn’t feeling so fresh himself. His dry eyes are at least rewarded with the steady pulse of white text against a charcoal backdrop of the Foundation pulse, busy with chatrooms of PPP encounters and politic ongoings. Jazz can almost hear the life happening beyond the hotline city hotline. They just have to get through the gates with no problems and it’s a straight shot to Po-pon. He shuts the clam phone and turns around to see Duncan still stands like a stature on guard with eyes forward on the intersection. They share the same thoughts of just getting through already, but Jazz needs to assess his partner first. “…. Here, let me take a look at you.” They’ve been going for 4 days, and Jazz is the only one whose had rations. Standing so close to Duncan he coaxes the other with a pull to the back of the aviator. It’s easy getting him to about-face, and Jazz is looking into that mask of porcelain, truly an expression shaped from stone. Hollow eyes of two dark, empty, wells that want to watch you drown. Perfect chiseled expression of something regal. A demi god looking down on us all. Lips to nose, to brow, to its sheen. Jazz’s skin still goosepimples when he knows Duncan’s honey eyes are somewhere behind the shadow of that mask, piercing through him in their usual sleepy way. He misses seeing those eyes. He kind of wants to see them now, and despite Duncan being able to handle the stinging air better on his brow than any man, his chin pulls away from Jazz’s reaching fingers. Hand retreats, and Duncan’s chin drops again, so now Jazz thinks he’s being ignored. This works to get under Jazz’s skin a bit, Duncan can often be stubborn but usually agrees to a bit of affection. Especially since it’s been so long. He still can’t read the cold stone of Duncan’s mask he’d just tried to remove, but he’s known the other a long time.

With a softening of his mouth Jazz allows for the radius of their self-awareness to relax around them, his stance eases and he tries for a tired, but playful voice. “What’s wrong? You know I’ll only worry if you keep me wondering about you.” He mocks his own concern, only giving a disapproving smirk while his closed hand reaches out to give a comforting grope under Duncan’s chin at the stubble that barely grows through the alpha there anymore. Light play doesn’t even receive a flinch and he takes an innocent swipe at the dirt and crud against Duncan’s chest. All his pawing only gets is a drop of Duncan’s chin to the finger indents left against his broad chest. Fine, if the other is going to be such a cranky prude… Jazz invites himself more into Duncan’s stoic space to pull at the tall collar of the other’s aviator. The jacket is cropped pretty short but right now, it definably has some room in the chest since the start of their travels. Barely mulling over it, Jazz hasn’t seen Duncan ever close the jacket, he could now if he wanted and Jazz illustrations this with some play to the zipper. Can’t imagine it would only save them but a few more minutes for people figure out Duncan is Alpha beneath the too small jacket. He likes that Duncan has never been one to hide who he is though, even before, all this.

Scanning his eyes down the other man, Jazz can’t deny how much Alpha has taken over Duncan’s body since just a few years ago. From bottom of spiked foot to now bottom of his chin Alpha sits on his skin like a suit. Duncan reminds Jazz of the stock of Doberman his mother would raise for competition when he was young. All solid with an elegant length and poise, the strength clear in its form and self-esteem. Duncan is a lot like those Doberman from Jazz’s childhood. Just as protective, can get just as fierce at the turn of a second. His mother put it as “Beautiful but stupid dogs.” Doberman’s have their triggers. Inbreeding, man playing a role in forever corrupting what they love so much. Like, Duncan.

With a scrape of his boot Jazz is crouching just before the other male, craning his neck to try seeing through the thick curtain of Duncan’s hair. It’s always difficult reading his partner because of the mask, as natural as he may make it seem to outsiders. There are many a moment like this where Jazz is lost on Duncan’s status. He knows his colleague is hurt, and hungry, tired. Right now, Jazz can see from Duncan’s poise some very weary shoulders weigh on him. His body tone still provides a broad silhouette but with a gloved palm over his chest Jazz can feel the rub of Duncan’s ribs a little too well. Moving his hand against Duncan, feeling more. Fingers follow over the line of a few connecting ports from times pasts in the oil black skin of torso. Times back when LABAS was Duncan’s labyrinth, doctor’s his torturers, the government his master, and Jazz the one who failed him. Even to this day he still feels like he’s always dropping the ball on Duncan. Duncan just usually brushes it off, accepts Jazz, and returns right back to his side. He’s sure as hell stuck it out through this whole stupid trip. Jazz actually misses East Harbor, and Glouctown now, at least the trenches were familiar. He knows the bums by name. He better understands the curfew, and he didn’t have to fight so hard for minimums, of food owed to him on his foodbank cards. Duncan requires so many calories to function. You’d think fucking Yerba Buena would be a bit more open minded to Jazz’s 100% certified papers explaining his ownership of Duncan and his totally legit specialty foodbank card that allowed him to take home at least the minimum of Duncan’s daily high caloric needs. Yerba Buena Conservation restoration committee employee, registered Alpha and human recompenses sympathizer, active fire guild volunteer, an Alpha working to help restore humanity back to what it once was. This apparently didn’t mean shit out there. You’d think some certain, perks would just kind of come around with a nice job like what they do. Usually there are, for non-Alpha employees. Hell, the minimum for volunteers is a free meal…

Jazz can’t stop the circling thought in his mind how much it was a mistake to come across the fucking waste without being beneath the umbrella of some better paying benefits. He can’t stop coming back to these thoughts of, if Jazz were just some rando, nobody, trudging along in the aftermath then it would be very possible to survive on what Yerba Buena Conservancy was providing. Of course, he would never have even heard of such a position if he didn’t have Duncan, but he’d be living pretty fat in bleak times. The discrimination against Alpha just runs too deep. The silent, public, suggestion among survivors that Alpha’s owe steep reparations for their damage done to the world is no secret. There’s just too much stacked against them to make any moves to get away from Po-pon Insurance at this time. Right now, everyone hates them, and it’s on sight. Jazz can barely provide Duncan the calories to even function. They’ve just had no breaks in Yerba Buena. Hell, even the commute to work led to some shady hours for travel and no reprieves even during their walks home. A ton and ninety-one reasons why Jazz had to just cut their losses and return to Po-pon Insurance LABAS with his tail between his legs. Once again, he’s dropped the ball on Duncan. Having been trying for the past 6 months to somehow improve their way of living and acting on that feeling of anger he gets with Po-pon Insurance. Too bad all the LABAS are the same and have never changed in taking your soul.

To the LABAS, Duncan is only a resource for them to exploit. They’ve lost many friend and enemy to them. Especially the government run ones. There’s been a LABAS since day one and Jazz has always hated them. He’s older, and wiser now, his life changed, but he still hates LABAS. Never again will he lose Duncan to another one. As much as they have to play with fire for work today, and while they couldn’t move away like Jazz wanted, even if that meant into Yerba Buena, he’d rather give up his fucking thumbs than give Duncan up again to the false mercy of science. He can’t deny that, that Yerba Buena LABAS pay, when it actually came through, was pretty nice. If even for a moment, they splurged, and he got to do something for Duncan, some of it was worth it. Wherever he could Jazz would make sure to damn near spoil the older man with plenty of those stupid Gomon vendor, special, plus packs. Duncan hadn’t been much in a binging mood while away from Glouctown, but that wouldn’t stop Jazz from trying to enable the hell out of Duncan. Jazz knows Duncan LOVES the stupid Goman slot venders. The machine and the lights, and addictive slot arm makes it really fun to use. A literal pull lever reward. With each Goman, slot vendor, friend purchase, pull you get a gamble at the slots, for free! Get three in a row and you win the prize on top of your original purchase. Also, there’s this punch thing where if you get so many then of course, more free shit. The Goman punches are really popular to trade among the community, and Duncan is an avid collector. They had some fun while out there, to the point even they ran out of credits, because Jazz is so bad at money management. So when they suddenly get laid off they find they have no way of getting back to East Harbor, even on bus. So, they had to foot it. Somehow, walk to Angels Camp Prison, then from there hitch across the rest of the waste, to campstopW, heading East towards campstop10. Then from there it was just a walk following campstops, until finally fucking Foundation.

Up until now Duncan has kept it together, but the closer they get to Foundation Jazz can barely seem to hold the others attention at all. This is probably the longest Duncan has looked at him whole trip. While he’s passive and lets Jazz stroke long, calming, pets against his ribs, there’s this tingle just beneath the heat of Duncan’s skin. Barely its sensed along Jazz’s fingertips as anxious static zapping him, a sign of Duncan’s true feelings behind that mask. He’s also ridged, clearly doesn’t want to be touched right now. Still Jazz brings both hands to push beneath the aviator jacket and hug around the testy man. The warmth that comes from Duncan’s core isn’t human. It’s always been enveloping, almost like another presence is pressed against Duncan’s ribs that throbs with heat. Even while his furnace scrapes on empty and sours his mood. Jazz still greedily pulls his arms around Duncan and buries his nose into the neck before him. Long scar trailing from the bottom of chin, down his sternum to end beneath his navel, is given some loving nuzzling from Jazz. He kisses like a pup at the underside of Ducnan’s jaw, snuggling the straight line, and pressing his nose into a warm pulse.

These intimate moments have become far and few between them. Duncan stands there, his chin lowered for the black hollow eyes of his mask to silently watch Jazz’s when the other kisses him cheekily on the chin. The mess of long brown cowlicks have always moved though they have a life of their own about Duncan’s crown. An especially thick cord of hair slithers from behind Duncan’s ear, this tuft of hair being different. It curls and stretches like something other than hair with tiny suckers that gently prod the straight strands of Jazz’s own slicked back locks. The single tiny appendage looks like it could be a baby octopus arm nestled among the many thick, dark chocolate, wasps of Duncan’s mane. Jazz can feel the tiny motion of the prodding tentacle along his hairline, knowing it’s just the Alpha in his partner. Turning his head, he drops his ear against the wall of Duncan’s sternum, fitting himself with arms still linked around the other in an uncomfortable embrace. Another long moment of pause is taken here. Static now stings sharper, causing Jazz’s skin to goose pimple and his slicked back hair to frizz a little. He just braces against it and holds around Duncan until his affections are finally returned. With a large hand petting the back of his head the static dribbles off to barely a shock on Jazz’s skin here or there. They stand like this, holding each other when Duncan’s chest slowly expands, and he sighs a rare sound. Deep, yielding, breath pushes through the mask over Jazz’s hair along with some dust, even though squeezing with a lot of his strength Duncan’s sigh is enough to almost break his hold. First time that year perhaps he feels, lighter? Better? Jazz can’t yet tell, it’s all still too fresh, all he can think right now is how fucking long overdue this hug is.

The hollow growl of Duncan’s stomach cuts through Jazz with a sharp, ferocity, he feels. It’s like Jazz hugs a pole being struck by lightning. Duncan only breaths, steady, and controlled, while inside he audibly twists in on himself. Long, sharp, noises that end with a ringing gurgle, just to further express its echoing discontent. When Jazz only squeezes around Duncan harder, he grins when he receives a low grunt of discomfort from behind the stoic mask. His pressure curdles a harsher sound straight from the bottom of Duncan’s gut and he audibly tries to swallow it back down. Its resonating cry draws Jazz to lift his face and smile apologetically to the mask he knows hides the unamused, scruffy, eye he must be receiving right now. “I’m sorry, I’ll try not to tease you.” He receives barely a nod before releasing his arms from the constricting hug, and stepping back, but just barely to watch Duncan raise a hand to hold over the slight concave in his abs. Jazz openly stares at Duncan’s lack attempts to sooth the grouchy noise barking from inside him. Now that Jazz has gone and triggered the cacophony, Duncan struggles to get himself back in check.

It’s a bit amazing to watch how Duncan handles himself like an engine with a check light. The care or, attention, that one can have from, apprehension or instinct seem to be lacking from Duncan sometimes. Like now, he’s famished, obviously beat, but without even a sigh he methodically presses three fingers into the underside of his ribs. It looks painful, but Duncan keeps his fingers there as though holding the reset button. He only slightly tightens his shoulders after an extended minute of this before finally loosening the pressure to knead the heel of his palm there. If Jazz didn’t know Duncan, he’d think the other maybe looked a bit sick, but after straightening again he rubs an open palm over his belly as he looks up to meet Jazz’s eye. Jazz waits for his partner when their eyes lock and lets show some of his feelings in the moment. “Yea? Hungry huh? Well we’re close. I’ll make Yorke buy us some dinner. How’s that? Some real food. Not this starch and sugar crap we always gotta eat off the vendors. Something real. Alive.” Even talking bad about it, a GoPo Jumbo Tiayaki would be so perfect right now. That and a stupid soy banana milk that he knows will fuck up his stomach but he’s willing to fight the discomfort for that. With a smug curl of his mouth his hand reaches out again to push through the jacket and intercept Duncan’s hand to cup against his ribs. Same place Duncan had just been holding. The touch seems to get Duncan to still, his hand still holds over the side of his belly mid rub. He’d promised he wasn’t going to tease Duncan any more, but Jazz can’t stop himself from pulling a reaction from the other.

Thumb pets the indent raised against Duncan’s skin, a subtle PEG port that sits just at the shallow dip under his ribs. This works to get a shiver out of Duncan. One that loosens another growl free and gets his shoulders to tighten towards his ears. Jazz kneads his thumb there, careful not to jar the sensitive port but knows how just some prodding can trigger more retort from within the broody Alpha. Duncan, looks to resist at first, but his shoulders sag and he’s leaning more into that nudging pressure against his port. “….” Jazz can’t help the grin of his success at getting the hungry lion to succumb to him. When his thumb twitches with more pressure Duncan rewards him a sweet-sounding flinch and grunt, then another step more into Jazz. He can feel the resistance of Duncan’s abs like a wall of concrete, but Duncan leans further into the pressure until his mask pillows into Jazz’s shoulder. Breath warms against Jazz’s neck as grunts grow thinner and Jazz kneads his thumb harder against the port until he feels the tension give and he’s afraid he’s going to hurt Duncan.

The gurgle that echoes from Duncan sounds painful, and the groan he strains from his throat is voice to that pain. Jazz only pulls his hand back to catch Duncan and hold him steady when he wavers and starts to sink to his knees. With a few apologetic rubs over Duncan’s shoulders and a sorry smile, Jazz is about to suggest a way towards the gatepoint for the capital when a different sounding rumble comes over their ears. Both men instantly look over head to the sickly copper skies, at the unmistakable whirr of a PPP gruntbot suddenly crossing the intersection not 12ft from them. The thing rides the narrow walkway tracks over the heads of the trenches by a dangling camera that makes its body and hanging arms holding a rifle. Foundation PPP specifically built these tracks to monitor every turn of dirt heading into the capital and every bum scurrying within the maze. Despite holding his breath, the thing stops as though just knowing Duncan and Jazz stand right in the dead end ally. It turns to face them and utter a single garbled “halt”, focus of the camera locking on them blinks red as a silent alarm triggers.

Patrol Pack Police are the closest thing to local law enforcement these days. Militarized police dogs keeping as much control as they can anymore, but no one relies on the dogs to protect anything but themselves and Foundation. Good way to live though, a program government protected, bunker living, best 3 meals under Horizon. Too bad all PPPdogs are assholes entitled to everything they put under their boot. Cursing when the moment is confirmed passed when riffle is no longer pointed to the floor but aimed on them. Jazz tears his eyes from the hanging arms of the camera and rifle, to close the distance between he and Duncan again to kiss against the ungiving porcelain of the mask then pull his satchel around to open. “Duncan here.” He has to both dig through his bag and wave for Duncan’s eye, so he knows the other is paying attention to him. “Give me anything on you that they’ll think is suspicious. Not that it would matter, much, I think. Make sure you keep this on you, because you know they’re going to ask for it.” Jazz pulls free some dog tags and drapes them around Duncan’s neck, then proceeds to dig among Duncan’s coat pockets as though he were a PPPdog himself. His search comes up with two bandannas, an empty mint tin, some looted band aids no use to Duncan, as well as a 5” shiv that probably came from his pack as again, Duncan wouldn’t have much use for something like this. “You take this from my bag?” Barely holds up the shiv before stuffing it into his boot. The rest of their belongings, like, Jazz’s glasses. Some minor first aid things, like bandages, some numbing spray, antibiotics, and some charcoal. These bandanna’s Duncan seems to be collecting. A sewing kit. Water flask, everything else looks to be ok. He tosses his bag onto the floor from their feet then, his I.D in clear view as it spills from the bag. Jazz stands in place then, mentally checking everything before noticing Duncan’s looking mask with a short smile and wink of confident assurance. Duncan shares nothing from the motion, and only stares back.

He’s trying to take extra precaution. This can only go so many ways for both himself and Duncan. He keeps his phone in one hand before he automatically reaches and adjust at Duncan’s limited attire, precious seconds tick the closer they know back up comes. With a lick to one of the bandannas he’s wiping at the dirt smudged over Duncan’s mask and fixing the aviator so that his ribs can’t easily be seen with a close to the zipper. Duncan stands obediently for Jazz, even subtly lifting his chin so Jazz can better preen him and zip the tall collar to hide the Alpha on his chin. With one last swipe and shooting kiss Jazz stuffs the bandanna into his pocket to take a wide step from Duncan just as the gruntbot garbles another command to “put your hands behind your head.” They’re looking at each other, Jazz holding Duncan’s eye with a chaste look, still smug with affection for the other as he raises his hands to fold behind his head. Duncan follows the motion and still only watches Jazz as two PPPdogs deftly jump the good 10ft drop from the up-level streets to land heavily on their boots and aim more rifles onto them. Thicker of the two’s boots don’t even hit the bottom of the trench before he spits orders. “Stop right fucking there!”

It’s unnecessary as Duncan and Jazz aren’t moving already. Still, the PPPdogs partner must back him with a follow up of “both of you, on the ground. Now.” Rolling his eyes but obeying, Jazz moves to do just as he’s told by settling onto a knee. Both asshole PPPgrunts surround him with rifles still very aimed at his face. The bigger one advances, slow at first, then kicks Jazz’s foot out when he’s close enough to speed up the process. Falling the rest of the way the two PPPgoons jump him, further jostling Jazz into the moist dirt of the trench. Face first of course. They force a sound of pain from him as he feels grit push against his teeth and the two PPPdogs finish their rough search of him to restrain Jazz’s hands to his back. They get up in unison, not saying anymore to Jazz as the smaller of the two methodically works through the sparse supplies of his bag. Jazz had caught a glimpse of the name badge, Cobb, the other cop stays too far out of his peripheral to read his name. Fatcop hovers lazily and keeps Jazz under the spread of his legs to flip through his confiscated phone. The fatass further throws salt into Jazz’s eyes to drawl on as though bored. “Alright you bums I.D’s, pockets, and business...” The smaller of the two PPP thugs finished flipping Jazz’s satchel pockets, dropping his I.D after taking a picture with his own government issued phone. Nothing else interesting falls from the bag and he directs his attention onto Duncan with a rise of his rifle. Hands already folded behind his head Duncan doesn’t move until the PPPdog’s visors turn on him, then he slowly sinks to his knees. “Holy shit Reese it’s a fucking Alpha.”

Up until now, the so far not so asshole PPPdog, NOT, Reese had remained relatively cool and controlled. It’s the way his voice jumps that gets his porkier partner to redirect his lazy browsing through Jazz’s phone onto Duncan, still only on his knees. Now both PPPdog’s stand a little straighter. Fatslop, Reese steps from standing over Jazz toward Duncan with an arrogant swagger and a warning lift of his gun. Jazz cranes his neck so to keep them in his peripheral. “He’s verified. A valuable Yerba Buena Conservation asset. I’m his sponsor. We have records.” He tries not to click his tongue when the police just ignore him to circle Duncan like a couple of cats at a birdfeeder. “We lived west 6 months for work related business, but we lived in Glouctown long before that. We’ve lived here since before it was Glouctown.” The PPP aren’t interested in hearing Jazz. Instead they noisily dissect over Duncan while prodding him in the shoulder with their guns. Especially this assclown, fatchop, Reese.

He swaggers around Duncan then lifts his gun, with enough force Reese would have caused a normal man a bloody nose. “You heard my partner. Get the fuck on the floor.” The muzzle knocking into his mask does cause a response flinch from Duncan. It gets everything inside Jazz to hitch, but once again, he can only do so much. “Really, he doesn’t know jack and couldn’t tell you shit. Our records are current and should tell you everything you want to know.” They don’t even turn around, still absorbed with Duncan and Jazz’s phone Reese still holds. They seem hesitant to stand too close to Duncan at first. Him still only on his knees, keeps the smaller PPPdog aimed point blank for Duncan’s chest. That’s when he notices the dogtags. Reaching around his gun for them, his fingers barely waver before Cobb steels his nerve. “…It’s a real one. You know Brook from 17th campstop? One of these things took his whole right arm clean off. They can get fucking ugly, especially when not detained. This one doesn’t even have a muzzle, all it takes is one bite.”

Reese makes a noise like he’s seen worse and uses the muzzle of his gun to force Duncan’s chin up. “You wanna take a bite out of us? Fucking parasite. Think I’ve actually seen this one before… Didn’t he help the fire guild with that makeshift transformer last year? That thing nearly took out a whole 3 blocks of Foundation trench. We still don’t have the gruntbot tracks fully functional yet.” Jazz nearly mocks the sound the PPPdog uttered just a moment ago but manages to keep it tucked. “Oh, that same Alpha that held the front line at the almond service factory off OxxArea? When Alpha was spreading in from the east Horizon, this thing ate it before it could reach the city hotline. I saw an article about it on the GPG. Thanks to it Harbor has milk again.”

Reese only curls a lip while sneering down to Jazz’s phone. “Yea sure, this looks like it could be the same one. I’m still looking at this guy’s pulse here. Checks out. Jazz Beckka. 30, Black hair, black eyes, DNA goes back to Serbia. Last pulse was from stopcamp5, then Yerba Buena Angels Camp.” Fatty lazily pets the trigger to his rifle while he chews on this information. “Angel’s camp? That’s the island where they keep all that Alpha in a vault? Kinda suspect if you ask me…” Mentally Jazz curses. “What? Are you saying we should interrogate them about Angels Camp?” The smaller PPPD grunt moves as though activated by a switch. His rifle lifts and he’s again forcing the barrel on Duncan, this time with much less reserve. “Get on the fucking floor. Now!” Both cops now look to Duncan with pinched breath, their hearts beating more and more wild the longer they hold their guns on him. “Get on the ground!” Jazz can fold over himself with how hard he cranes to see. Duncan doesn’t move, hands still folded behind his head, and now Jazz quietly begs for the other to please pull his head from his ass. Now’s, NOT the time. Not now. He can’t tell if Duncan is able to read Jazz’s lips from where he lay but after a hair pulling pause Duncan shifts and he’s spreading his knees so to ease them onto the floor. Just like an old dog who can’t be bothered Jazz thinks. Too bad even old dogs get kicked.

Bitchcop Reese swings a heavy leg right into Duncan’s unguarded gut. Jazz nearly jumps up with an accusing “HEY” when he watches Duncan take the full brunt of it. He manages to barely keep his cool as Duncan collapses cheek first into the floor from the kick, then in a very human response, writhes a bit while the two patrol pack losers stalk above him. “He got a phone? Cobb check his pulse. If it true it’s legit then I should be able to find vitals on this thing. Graphs or x rays. Something from the past week that shows me there’s a fucker with an endoscope and a clipboard that’s seen inside and knows what the hell I’m dealing with.” Crushing a boot into the back of Duncan’s head to keep him down for the other cop to search through his pockets after restraining his hands behind his back. Cobb waste no time in raking his hands over Duncan once he’s down with a boot on his face. They quickly realize he’s very naked beneath the jacket. No hidden pockets besides what come with the attire, only finding some mascot patches from random vendors. Cobb examines the patches then puts them away in his own vest to pass Reese the simple clam-shell phone. The patches are the equivalent to baseball cards today and popular mostly among kids. Jazz knows Duncan loves the stupid things and seeing them go is going to piss him off.

Easily they unlock the phone with their own overrides, just as they did with Jazz’s, then huddle together over its screen. “Same thing, last pulse pings back at Angels Camp Island.” It’s not looking good for Duncan and Jazz today… By this point they mutter mostly among themselves while they fillet through Duncan’s phone. Jazz only wishes to hear so he can also know the goings of Duncan’s personal phone. They ahh over something as though enlightened, then the chuckling makes it clear now they are just getting their shits and giggles and invading the other man’s privacy. “Aye, there really are diagrams and notes and shit. A lot of it’s public. His last weigh in comes from Yerba Buena Conservation free clinic in at 109kg? Sure. Heh, how long ago was this? Only a week ago… Cobb look at this. Results for the Intrauterine Insemination treatment. It says, “regularly poor and it’s considered normal for Alpha to be infertile, which leads to results unchanged at, 0.” I didn’t even know Alpha still had their genitalia after they mutate. Hold on, I gotta put this on the stop5 pulse.” While Reese seems to get a hoot out of what he learns, Cobb is a little more serious in his interest. “They have every vaccine here designed from the Alpha mined from its body. There’s also a list of vaccines tested against this specific Alpha. There’s so many… Its over all produced vaccines have a result, of 4/10. That’s actually impressive. Most of the vaccines out there are duds. Look, I remember this vaccine, it was pushed by Po-pon Insurance about 9 months ago. There was a lot of hype for it. Then we did that crackdown on WIM?” Cobb looks back to the blank reflection of Reese’s police respirator mask. “That plastic company. They got caught selling placebo versions of the vaccine and nobody talked about it again… I think I still went and got that one…”

Reese tosses Duncan’s phone onto his back with a click of his tongue. “You actually put that shit in your body Cobb? Willingly? I survived the spread before, without any vaccines. I’m still here. You pump your veins with that shit they keep pushing out like its fucking dry cereal, and you’re only going to feel worse. They talk about, transparency, but you can’t even understand half the shit they fill in that syringe. You don’t know what it is. Bet you haven’t noticed you’ve felt any better huh? There is no single magic vaccine, and Alpha don’t carry some magic cure. They caused all this!” Duncan’s phone must not have much in the way of tea because they are quickly losing focus as Reese shits on the his fellow cop. Cobb seems to know better than to enable his cohort, and Reese lets it go to direct his disgruntled rise back on Duncan still on the floor. “Aren’t nothing but a couple nobodies coming through from west side. On foot like a pair of jackasses too. This one barely got the skin on his bones. 109kg my left nut.” Their guns are down, but their tongues are still sharp and primed. They both laugh, finding it funny Duncan’s distress. Jazz can only grit his teeth. “You this one’s keeper, but you both are half dead out here. Don’t remember the last time we got to run into someone stupid enough to cross the waste like this.” They both chuckle some more, Jazz just glad they seem to forget about physically harassing them. The sooner these lapdogs leave the sooner then they can get Duncan back to Po-pon. These fuckers would have moved on by now had Duncan still been employed there.

“We are trying to get into Foundation. If, everything looks fine here we’d like to keep moving.” Jazz hopes they can hear him while they still chatter among themselves but it doesn’t look to be the case. “Po-pon Insurance attracts a lot of these fucking Alphas to Foundation since they’ve jumped on the damage control bandwagon. Who the Hell woulda thought to help the thing that tried to kill us?” Cobbs seems interested in the gossip as most people today are. “They offer community service as well as other aids towards benefiting humans now. Without companies like Po-pon Insurance there’d be no amends at all. Even if it’s against their will this is the only way people and Alpha can coexist. As long as they don’t try to eat me like that guy up at 17th.” Well thank whatever gods care anymore. Seems Cobb just may be an Alpha sympathizer. They could actually use a bit of luck, it’s been so long. Jazz feels utterly disgusting for gushing for some stranger’s sympathy. Even if it’s in his head.  
Cobb’s probably aware the process of mining Alpha isn’t always so comfortable, and for a while it had looked to be even be getting to Duncan. After Yerba Buena though, Jazz has realized, now’s just not the time for side quest and lazy dreams. Duncan owes a debt. Alpha, his Alpha became all their Alpha. The world’s Alpha. This fucking thing, this virus, this calamity, this hell, this parasite. It’s Duncan, but only certain peoples even know this. If it gets out that Duncan is the source of this monster then what’s left of the world will sacrifice him, chew him up, then dissect him down to try and save what they can. Which isn’t much, but Jazz wouldn’t blame them, really. He’s lost everything and everyone too, but he’s kept Duncan. Somehow. Now, with the world in the trash, and everyone in misery he gets to finally have his Duncan here, but there’s still work to be done.

They need to understand what the hell they’re dealing with, test vaccines, test chemical weapons, test the Alpha resistance, know Alpha’s every biological fold of makeup so they can fight it. So that Jazz doesn’t feel guilty about the Alpha mining anymore, he copes by disappearing at the appointments. He just wonders if Duncan is bothered by that, because that’s exactly where Jazz is trying to take them right now. They need a place to sleep, food to eat, they need to live. Yerba Buena was a crapshoot, and now Jazz has to march them into Foundation, back to Po-pon HQ LABAS to beg for their jobs back. Duncan is getting his Alpha mined dammnit. 

As if he needs to prove something Cobb does lower his gun, his boots moving him closer until he crouches low before Duncan and drops his visor to get a closer look of the white mask smeared by dirt. He almost looks about to reach for it. “You know, some people fetishize over these fucking plagues.” Reese’s comment seems to bother Cobb enough he pulls his hand back to himself and grips around his rifle. Reese sounds like he’s smirking from behind his visor as he continues. “Yea, real fucking freaks. Usually you hear of these scandals up in easytown. You know, Richcrust. Only people who can afford to keep one of these things tamed and sated.” Now Reese looks back at Duncan, removing his boot from the back of his head to hook into his side and flip him over. Duncan is tossed around in the dirt, his hair tousled, and that stubby octopus arm rises from the back of his ear defensively as though to protect Duncan’s face. Cobb just seems to glee over like some boy poking around at the aquarium before his hand is reaching out and roughly grabbing the tentacle. Duncan’s surprised groan comes out sharp and pained as he yelps and jumps, probably scaring the two officers at the very human sound coming from behind the mask. There’s barely time to flinch as the tentacle spasms within Cobb’s heavy grip and when he pulls away it’s suckers bite painfully into his hand. “What? A, ah!!” With only a gasp it’s suddenly snaked around the rest of Cobb’s hand and wrist with clear strength about to snap his bones into pieces.

  
Cobb doesn’t even get to finish screaming the first time when his fingers break back, then his hand and wrist are snapped in half with a loud popping, and crunch. Reese being the great partner he’s portrayed himself to be, jumps away from both his cohort and Duncan, so startled he can only watch on as Cobb howls, and writhes with the tentacle still hugged around his broken joints. Duncan turns his head from the dirt, mask looking up on Reese for two very unhappy, golden, eyes to glare through the shadow of the mask holes. Reese does respond at this and pulls his rifle back on Duncan. It’s too late though, just as Reese pulls the trigger and tries jumping farther away, Duncan is rolling, and Cobb screams as his arm is yanked along and he’s forced to keep up. First spray of bullets miss, a smear of bullet holes surround the floor where Duncan’s restraints lay left behind. Duncan kneels with a sobbing Cobb beside him on the other side of the trench, hand still suck in his hair. Now that Duncan has him, he’s not letting the cop that hurt him go. Jazz is, trying not to have a fit. Right now, he can only gawk on while it feels like his head is about to blow off his neck. He doesn’t know what to do, or how to help, he’s tied up, he doesn’t want to get shot, the longer he stays down things are only getting worse, what the fuck should he do??

“Duncan!! No!” He cuts his cries for the other man short because he knows how useless that is. He must get up. Scrambling his feet under him he gets on his knees when Cobb’s choked sobs of pain are pointed on Jazz trying to get to his feet. Reese doesn’t look to want to take his eyes from Duncan who stands with his back to the other side of the trench wall. Jerk of his gun aims it at Jazz, and he rises his voice to bark a warning at him. “Don’t you fucking dare! I will blow your heart out. Stay there.” Reese looks back on Duncan, and despite having his hands restrained the bastard dances with a smooth spin of his body, if just to get Cobb to twirl around with him and scream for bloody mercy. Duncan is clearly trying to provoke Reese now, and from the way the cops finger tightens on the trigger of his gun its working. Duncan’s waiting for it, his body moves trying to juke Reese and to get him to pull the trigger. Cobb whimpers beside him, free hand gripping just below the break in his wrist, legs shaking from the pain that must be killing him. From the wet sobs that dribble through the filters of his mask he’s in tears of pain. Duncan doesn’t look like he’s going to be letting him go any time soon either. Time’s up when a resonating croak rumbles through Duncan. Another hollow echo that bites against everyone’s ears and causes Reese to reel back more. He stands straight, shrugging as though put off Reese would waste his time and not play his game of chicken. With a pull Duncan drapes an arm around Cobb’s waist to drag him flush against his grumbling side. Cobb can only stumble along, nearly boneless against Duncan and most likely blinded from his tears behind his mask. “Cobb! Fuck. Put him down you thing. Put him down right now!”

Reese raises his riffle and aims at Duncan, not knowing what it is about to pull, but he can see the way something seems to roll within the Alpha’s body and knows Cobb is fucked. Duncan doesn’t do anything right away, only watches the way Reese aims his gun and for a second, he looks to seriously freeze. Everyone stops. A wind blows over the trench and ruffles through Duncan’s hair. Jazz holds his breath, Cobb finally notices to look at his side pressed against the Alpha’s hungry one as he feels something really does twist inside its stomach. He cries for his cohort, and Reese still doesn’t shoot, instead he stutters to life and calls into his intercom. “I, I need fucking backup down here southwest from Foundation gate3 stat! I have a man down and a hostile Alpha! I need a medic. Follow gruntbot A1B44TZ333, I want the controls live, someone hands on!” Duncan looks over to Cobb pressed to his side, not hearing the orders Reese barks into his radio. His free hand hungrily pets along his side toward the line of scar trailing down his abdomen. With digging fingers, the black skin is pulled back for a zipper of shark like teeth and more of those tentacles, just bigger, to spill out from Duncan’s body. Reese chokes when the Alpha frees its insides into the air. The shine of Duncan’s ribs spreading open for more of its skin to split apart up that line to its chin for its jaw to separate in two like a snake. Teeth and tentacles continue to burp free from the panting black hole leading deeper into who knows where inside the thing. A large red heart sits between the open wings of a rib cage, sinew and vessels pulse between writhing tentacles with purple suckers and Reese nearly drops his gun at the horrific site of it. Cobb now screams for new reasons.

“Oh shit. Duncan! NO! DO NOT!” Jazz does manage to trip onto his feet now, stumbling over to stand by Reese, still plenty far away, but hopefully within eyesight of Duncan now. “Duncan! Put, the police man, down.” Reese looks between Jazz and Duncan as though he’d lost his damn mind. “I’m locking you up and putting that thing acid fucker.” Reese swings his rifle into Jazz and he falls. This doesn’t help Cobb, not in the slightest. Duncan grips Cobb’s broken wrist which wenches a soul splitting scream from Cobb. With a squeeze he forces Cobb onto his knees right before the drooling tentacles, and Cobb physically shakes. Especially when a mucus covered tentacle uncurls itself to pet along the respirator Cobb keeps over his helmet. With a pull of strong suckers the mask is pulled away just so Cobb can get the full raw experience of being eaten face first by an Alpha. Jazz still tries reaching out to Duncan, even from his hunched over kneel on the floor by Reese feet. “Duncan! Stop pointing that gun and let me talk to him! I can stop him!” Another scream cuts over them as Duncan lifts Cobb by his broken arm, dragging him closer into the maw splitting him apart. Cobb grabs desperately to the teeth rimed edge of the maw as the tentacles slowly curl around his limbs to drag him deeper into the circle of muscle that hides the dark hole into hell. “Untie me NOW! Right now! Do it asshole!” Reese looks so scared, but his limp fingers finally move to unlock the cuffs securing Jazz’s hands behind his back without even looking away from the scene ahead of him.

Cobb now fights in a true fit of flailing arms and kicking legs as he feels himself being pulled into the tight opening to his doom. He can feel it flex as it works on swallowing him back first. Jazz runs into Duncan, unfazed by the thick coil of tentacles that curiously lick at him. His hands reach through worming appendages for Cobb’s ankles and the armor to his bullet proof vest. Cobb cries incoherent wails, his useless hand flops as he reaches desperately back for Jazz. “Duncan! STOPPIT! NO!” Duncan rears his face back, the mask stoic as teeth continue to shimmer with eager mucus and Cobb’s is further swallowed until he’s folded up with his eyes quickly being sucked behind the muscle working him down. Jazz keeps a grip on his boot, but his own feet are dragged by the force of the PPPgrunt further being pulled down. Finally, Jazz lets go when Duncan suddenly stops. There’s a deep churning gurgle, the muscles within Duncan all quiver and with a gush Cobb is being spat back onto the trench floor in a sticky p-too of mucus and bile. Jazz covers his nose from the smell as Duncan’s body absorbs tentacles and teeth back into himself. The scar zips closed beneath his chin and Duncan wipes at some drool that leaks from his mask. Jazz looks to the unconscious eyes of Cobb soaking into the trench floor. Then back to Duncan’s blank mask. “Thank you…”

The sound of Reese retching breaks the somewhat tender moment. Neither men acknowledge the traumatized PPPdog though. Or the sound of alarms and boots running the up-level their way. Not even the sound of rifles locking onto them as they are surrounded by men and women in Foundation uniform. They just, continue to stare at each other, a complicated look coming over Jazz’s brow. One of mild disappointment, and sadness. Some other things reflect from his eye back to Duncan, who merely stares back, not at all looking sorry for the cluster fuck of events now spinning out before them. “I hope your fucking happy guy.” Duncan only sniffs to Jazz, again following his movements when Jazz folds his hands behind his head. The PPP all shout their commands over each other. To “get on the floor!” “Hands on your head!” and, “you are under fucking arrest!” Jazz tries keeping optimistic while the police close in on them. Like, now maybe Po-pon will come to them so to bail them out. Jazz gets that bed. He’s looking at himself through the reflective visor of a PPP helmet, when the butt of a rifle is closing in and he’s shutting his eyes. Maybe it’s going to be all right after all. Least that’s what Jazz keeps telling himself.

_

thanks for reading~

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